


A Study In Gadget

by Hay_Bails



Category: Inspector Gadget (Cartoon), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, British Comedy, Comedy, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his niece Penny is kidnapped by the evil Doctor Claw, Inspector Gadget finds himself looking for help halfway around the world at the flat of the world's most famous consulting detective - Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Go Go Gadget ‘Brella,” the tall man in grey muttered. It was pissing rain, and the streets of London were deserted. The man in grey cursed under his breath when a large bouquet appeared, like magic, from the top of his hat.

“’Brella, I said! Go Go Gadget ‘ _Brella!_ ” The bouquet disappeared, to be replaced by a small, bright red parasol.

“That’s better,” the man said with a nod. He held up a crumpled map to his face, examining it as best he could in the thinning light. After a few moments, he nodded to himself, and set off to his left. Baker Street appeared before him, stretching out into the city. The man in grey walked a few blocks, stopping at an unassuming door just past a café. He checked his map again, just to be sure he had the right address. Then, with a breath that may or may not have been entirely biologically necessary, the man in grey gathered his courage and knocked on the door marked 221B.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dull,” Sherlock Holmes said, drawing out the word so each individual letter could be distinguished. He flapped a hand at the man, who stood up from the rickety wooden chair.

“Oi! I was told you could help!”

Sherlock didn’t afford the man even a slight glance. “A person with even the most miniscule imagination could see where your wife has run off to, Mr. Figgis, and I’m sorry to say that it isn’t back to your wedding bed,” he said, gathering a stack of papers into his hands. “Perhaps you would have better luck in visiting one of the many brothels this city has to offer. Heaven knows women tend to be more faithful to one who has paid them for their services,” he said.

John Watson stifled a giggle as the now-brideless Figgis gave Sherlock the stink eye. However, not another word was said as the man walked out of the room, deflated, but with as much dignity as he could muster.

Sherlock reclined on the sofa.

“I’m _bored,_ John,” he said in a petulant whine.

John sighed. “I’m sure something will turn up,” he replied.

It had been a mere three days since Sherlock had last solved a case, but already the signs of stir-craziness were beginning to show.

John worried over Sherlock, truly he did. But it was impossible to tell when his eccentric flatmate would enter into a bout of ‘boredom,’ as he called it. John had hidden the gun this time, at least. If nothing else, he could perhaps save the flat from any more damage than had already been caused by Sherlock’s previous episodes.

He sighed. “Do you want me to make you any tea, then?” he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his hands to his temples. “No.”

“Sherlock… you’re not even on a case. You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said, standing up from his perch on the armchair across from Sherlock. “Please, just humor me on this. Tea, at the very least. That’s all I ask.”

Sherlock cracked one eye open. “Food is boring,” he said, before closing the eye again.

John resisted the urge to yell. He ran a hand through his hair.

“More for me, then,” he muttered, and walked into a kitchen. He prayed to any god that might be out there that Sherlock would get a case, and soon. He could deal with Case Sherlock. Bored Sherlock was another story.

Which was why, when the landlady showed her face in their flat exactly seven minutes later, John’s face lit up with a certain hope.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the door. “Boys, I’ve got another one for you,” she said in a light tone.

Sherlock said nothing.

“Send him in,” said John.

“In you come, dearie, that’s it,” said Mrs. Hudson to the man outside the door.

“Thanks,” the man said, with a smile, and stepped into the flat. He was careful to wipe his feet. It had been raining, after all.

Mrs. Hudson returned the smile. “Oh, you’re welcome. Such a _nice_ young man,” she said to herself. “You boys behave,” she said, wagging a finger at Sherlock, before disappearing back down the stairwell.

Sherlock Holmes peeked out from under his eyelids with a frown. No one _smiled_ when a case was brought to 221B Baker Street.

“Who are you?” he asked. Besides the little speech he had given to Mr. Figgis earlier, it was the most he had spoken in the past sixty-two hours.

The man looked up at him, beaming. “The name’s Inspector Gadget,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. You must be Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “It’s an honor.” Sherlock glanced over him. He was wearing a full length grey trench coat, blue jeans, and black shoes. He also sported a matching grey fedora. His face was strangely devoid of emotional depth. He smiled innocently.

“Hm,” Sherlock said noncommittally.

John Watson walked in from the kitchen, holding a mug of hot tea between his hands. “Inspector Gadget,” he said. “Sounds familiar. You’re American?” he asked, trying to place where he had heard the name before.

“Yes,” the Inspector said.

“No need to make obvious statements, John,” Sherlock said.

John glared at his flatmate. “Ignore him,” he said to the Inspector. “Please, have a seat,” he continued, gesturing to the small wooden chair.

“Thanks,” Inspector Gadget said, crossing the room in two steps and sitting on the chair. He smoothed the front of his coat.

“Why are you here, Inspector?” John asked, after a moment or two of uncomfortable silence.

A frown crossed Inspector Gadget’s face for a fleeting moment. Sherlock relaxed. That was more like it.

“Well…” the Inspector started. “I’m here because I have a case that needs solving.”

“No!” Sherlock said, bringing his hands to his cheeks in a parody of shock.

“Yes!” Inspector Gadget said, eyes widening, completely oblivious to the sarcasm that was positively dripping from Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock groaned internally.

John gave Sherlock a look. “What can we do to help?” he asked, trying to smooth out the conversation.

Inspector Gadget looked around, as if making sure that no one was spying on their conversation. Then, with a glint of steel in his eyes, he turned back to Sherlock and John. “Sherlock Holmes,” he began. “My niece, Penny, has been kidnapped.” He swallowed.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips.

Gadget continued. “I have reason to believe that she was taken by a criminal – also American – named Doctor Claw. She was taken-“ he said, voice cracking only slightly. He cleared his throat. “She was taken almost three days ago. I… I’ve heard that you and Dr. John Watson have the ability to help me find her.” He turned his eyes to the floor. “Please,” he concluded, with a sniff.

John looked at him compassionately. He rose to offer the Inspector a tissue. To his shock, the Inspector’s hat _opened_ before he could reach him. He watched, startled, as a sort of mechanical hand extended from the top of the hat, offering the Inspector a handkerchief. The Inspector accepted this gift, and the hand vanished back into the hat.

“Um,” John said.

Sherlock had watched this display quietly and without comment. After a moment’s consideration, he stood. “We’ll take your case, Inspector,” he said with a nod.

John nodded blankly. “Um. Sherlock?” he asked.

“What, John?”

“His, um. His hat…?” he asked quietly.

The Inspector flushed. “Oh, that! Oh, I’m… I apologize,” he said, flustered. “I forget that things are different here in London,” he said sheepishly.

John nodded slowly. “So do all Americans have magic hats with hands in them, then?” he asked, bewildered.

“Ah, no,” the Inspector said. “Just me.”

Sherlock grinned devilishly.

John took a breath. “Well, I’ve seen stranger, I suppose,” he said.

“Not yet, you haven’t,” replied Sherlock quietly.

“Sorry?” John said, still looking a bit lost.

Sherlock just smiled. “Inspector Gadget, we will find your niece.”

Gadget grinned with relief. “Wonderful!” he cried.

“We will, however, need your help,” Sherlock continued, turning to face the window. “Your… _skills_ will be required, I’m sure,” he said.

Gadget stood, and brought himself to full attention. “Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes! I’m always on duty,” he said with a satisfying salute.

Sherlock turned back to face him, a bemused smile on his face. “I thought you might say something like that, Inspector Gadget,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

            “Well, well, MAD Cat,” said a dark, grisly voice from behind the chair. “What have we here?”

            A small blond girl knelt in a dark corner. Penny Gadget had been captured more than once by Doctor Claw and his goonies. She wasn’t afraid. She stuck out her tongue at Claw’s chair.

            The figure behind the chair reached out, and stroked an enormous grey cat that sat on the computer console before him. “Gadget’s little girl, and ours for the taking,” said Doctor Claw in his rasp. A tapping sounded from the desk in front of him as metal-gloved fingers came down in a calculated pattern, one-two-three-four.

            MAD Cat chuckled. It was a strange thing, Penny thought, to see a cat chuckle.

            “Do you want to know a secret, MAD Cat?” Claw asked.

            The grey creature looked up at its owner expectantly.

            “Our dear friend Penny is going to do exactly what we tell her to.”

            “Yeah, righ-“ Penny started, before a black-clad henchman covered her mouth with a beefy hand.

            “The boss is talkin’,” the goony warned.  Penny glared at the goony’s sweatshirt, inexpertly emblazoned with the letters “M.A.D.” Mad indeed, all of them were.

            Claw continued, ignoring the interruption.

            “And do you want to know _why_ Penny will do exactly as we ask?”

            Penny glared, fiery retorts going unspoken.

            Claw chuckled darkly, and hit a button on the console of his chair. A hole opened in the floor mere feet from where Penny stood captive. From the hole rose an iron cage.

            Penny gasped.

            Inside the iron cage, a yellow dog of middling size sat, ears drooping. The cage was too narrow for him to lie down, and too short for him to stand up. Upon seeing Penny, the dog perked up.

            “Rhhenny!” he barked.

            The dog’s red collar was ripped into four pieces. It sat on the floor of the cage.

            Claw laughed.

            “You see, Penny, we have your _dog._ We have your _friend._ And if you don’t do exactly what we tell you to do… that collar won’t be the only thing that gets ripped to pieces.”

            Penny Gadget sagged. The fight had gone out of her.

            “What do you say, Miss Gadget? Will you accept my… job offer?”

            The henchman in black lifted his hand from her face so she could respond.

            “I… all right. But you have to promise not to hurt Brain!” she said, picking up steam. “I’ll do what you say. But you have to promise me that Brain will be all right.”

            Claw continued to stroke his cat.

            “So long as you do what we say, little girl, your silly pet will not be harmed.”

            Penny sighed gratefully. She steeled herself.

            “What am I supposed to do?” she asked, making herself look up.

            Claw laughed some more.

            “Oh, nothing too… drastic,” he said, chuckling as if he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

            Penny frowned, and waited.

            “In return for your dog, Penny Gadget, you are going to bring me… your uncle.”

            Penny’s eyes widened. She went rigid.

            Claw’s laugh echoed around the stone chamber.

            “Oh, yes. You are going to _bring me Inspector Gadget_.”

 

* * *

 

 

            John Watson frowned.

            “That isn’t… that isn’t possible,” he said. “That’s not… that’s like something out of a bad science fiction novel.”

            Sherlock Holmes smirked, watching the display almost gleefully.

            Inspector Gadget was showing them his _fingers._

            Scissors, a bubble wand, a toothbrush, and a fork, among other things, protruded from his digits. John had nearly fainted at first, when the fingers had _come off_ at the top knuckle. It had taken him an entire cup of tea and a thorough examination of the Inspector’s hands for him to accept that detachable fingers were not, in fact, a source of extreme pain for this man.

            “You get used to it after a while,” the Inspector explained, a bit sheepishly. (Gadget hated showing off without a reason.) “Although it is sometimes a bit hard to remember which finger does what.”

            Sherlock grinned.

            “Oh, I’m sure it comes in quite… handy,” he said.

            John bit back a groan.

            “You bet your buttons it does!” Gadget beamed for a split second before his face darkened once more. “Still… it hasn’t helped me find Penny.” He stared dejectedly into his mug of tea.

            John frowned. “Hey,” he said, reigning back the mistrust in his voice and replacing it as best he could with sympathy. “We’ll find her.”

            “You think so?” Gadget gave a mighty sigh.

            “I know so,” John said with a small smile. “There hasn’t been a case yet that couldn’t be solved by Sherlock Holmes.”

            John thought it impressive that Sherlock was able to convey a smug smile while frowning in fact. He reminded himself to quit tossing praise around. If he wasn’t careful, Sherlock’s head would float right off his shoulders.

            Gadget looked up, appraising the other detective.

            “I know. That’s why I came to you.”

            “What more can you tell us of this Doctor Claw?” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned forward in his chair, the wonderment of Gadget’s gadgets having evidently worn off.

            “Well,” Gadget said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “He’s evil!”

            Sherlock stared at Gadget, waiting for him to qualify his statement.

            “…That’s it?” John asked. “No, no description? Height, weight, skin tone, anything?”

            Gadget thought for a minute.

            “He has a cat,” he said after a moment or two.

            “A cat,” John parroted.

            Sherlock made a thinking sort of noise.

            “An American man… with a cat. That narrows it down to, oh, about a quarter of the population.”

            “He’s not just any American man with a cat!” the Inspector cried defensively. “He’s my archenemy.”

            There was a pregnant pause.

            “What city are you from, Inspector Gadget?” Sherlock asked.

            “Metro City. Safest city in the United States,” he said proudly, chest puffing up.

            “Oh yeah, I bet, with evil archenemies and cats running around everywhere,” John mumbled under his breath.

            Sherlock fixed John with a Look.

            “Why don’t you go to Tesco and pick us up more milk?”

            “Sherlock, I just bought-“

            “No you haven’t.” Sherlock moved deliberately toward the refrigerator, opened the door, and knocked the jug of milk onto the floor. “We’re out of milk.”

            “But- Sherlock!”

            “Run along now, John,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal.

            Fuming like a small, angry locomotive, John ran along.

  

* * *

 

  

            “Buggering buggery bugger,” John muttered, kicking at a stray bottle cap that lay on the sidewalk. He shuffled along, hunching a bit to keep the rain off his face.

            The Tesco was just around the corner, and he moved through the doors briskly, scowling at the tiled floor. In his strop, he almost didn’t notice the man who came in behind him, wearing nothing but black and red, outfit emblazoned with the letters “M.A.D.”

            John glanced at the bulky figure for a moment or two, before looking away. “Kids these days,” he muttered, making his way to the dairy.

            He purchased a new jug of milk with only minimal trouble from the self check-out machine.

            He walked out of the Tesco, back into the spitting rain, steeling himself for the argument he would be having shortly with his flatmate.

            He nearly made it back to 221B Baker Street.

            As the man in black and red shoved a chloroform-soaked cloth under his nose, John dropped the milk.

            _It would be the milk_ was John’s last thought before he drifted into warm blackness.

  

* * *

 

 

            “He says he’s in touch with your Chief Quimby right now,” Sherlock said, tapping furiously at his smart phone. Sherlock Holmes hated calling in favors from his older brother Mycroft, but he knew that to access files from the American government in any sort of timely fashion, he would have to have Mycroft get in touch with the Metro City police force.

            “Is he really? My gosh, those things are fast,” Gadget said, eyeing the cell phone with distrust.

            “You don’t have one?” Sherlock looked up in amusement. “I would have thought you kept up with the latest in technology.”

            Gadget held out his hand, extending his thumb and pinkie. An old-fashioned cell phone wire popped out of the tip of his thumb. “Hand phone has always worked for me.”

            Sherlock hummed, and tapped send. “Reception must be terrible.” He put his phone in his pocket. “The report will be in my inbox in just a minute.”

            He sat on the sofa, pulling John’s laptop out from under the left cushion where he had hidden it. He guessed the password in under thirty seconds, and pulled up his browser to wait for the message.

            A bell dinged through the laptop’s speakers. Sherlock clicked open the file and read. Gadget shifted uncomfortably.

            “What does it say?” he asked.

            Sherlock stared up at Gadget after a long moment.

            “You know,” he began, “you could have told us the man owns a _castle._ ”

            The Inspector looked confused.

            “What? Doesn’t _your_ archenemy have a castle?”

            Sherlock saw Mycroft’s multimillion pound estate flash in his mind’s eye.

            “I suppose he does, at that.”

            Sherlock’s phone pinged. He picked it up, and frowned.

            “What? What’s wrong? Did they find her?” Inspector Gadget asked hopefully.

            There was a pause before Sherlock spoke.

            “They’ve taken John.”


	3. Chapter 3

            John Watson opened his eyes. A jarring red light shone in his face. It took him a second or three to piece together the fact that he was looking into a screen. It took him even longer to register that the screen was talking to him.

            “Hello, John,” a deep voice crackled at him through cheap speakers. “It’s good to see you awake.”

            “Yeah,” John said, blinking. He sat up as best he could. A leather seat made itself known underneath him. As near as he could tell, he was in a moving vehicle. Taxi? No, it was too nice for that. “Are you one of Mycroft’s, then? Only, Mycroft doesn’t usually knock me out before kidnapping me.”

            He surreptitiously shifted his hands, finding that they were expertly bound together. With a frown, he looked directly at the screen. The speaker’s face was shrouded in darkness. An absurdly fat, gray cat perched precariously on the man’s lap.

            “Who are you, anyway?” John asked. No harm asking, he figured. Sometimes, people will tell you.

            “You may address me as Doctor Claw.”

            John chuckled breathily. So much for that, then.

            “Is something funny, Doctor Watson?”

            “Yeah, no,” John said, continuing to laugh. “Just here I was thinking my flatmate was the dramatic one.”

            “Ah, yes. The famous Sherlock Holmes.” On the screen, Doctor Claw began to tap his fingers on the armrest of his chair, one-two-three-four. John noticed with a start that his hands were gloved in some sort of gauntlet. “I’m sure my reason for abducting you has become perfectly clear, Doctor Watson.”

            “Hm, I must have missed that bit, actually. It was probably between the time when the big man knocked me out with chloroform – nice touch, by the way – and me waking up in your car. It is a car, isn’t it?”

            “You are being taken to my holding facility where you will be kept, unharmed, provided that Sherlock Holmes does not interfere in my plan to capture Inspector Gadget.”

            John laughed again. “Yeah, a bit late for that, mate.”

            Claw appeared unfazed.

            “You will be held at my facility until Gadget is in my grasp. I repeat – I will not harm you, as long as you do exactly as I say.”

            John smirked. “And what am I meant to be doing?”

            “You are going to make a phone call, Doctor Watson. Just one. You can call whoever you like.” Claw leaned forward, upsetting the cat on his lap. “But be careful, doctor. It would be a shame if anything were to… happen… to you.”

            With an ominous click, the television screen flicked off. Darkness filled the cab of the car – it was indeed a car – and John leaned back against the seat. A darkened plexiglas panel divided the front and back of the vehicle. A small compartment rotated outward from just below the panel, revealing a cell phone which looked suspiciously red in the poor light.

            John eyed it with some distaste, before turning back to his hands, which were still tied. He lifted both, knocking at the plexiglas.

            “Oi! Mate!” he shouted to the driver. “One phone call, he said. I can’t make a phone call all tied up.”

            The panel rolled down a whole two inches, and a gruff voice issued from the front seat.

            “Put it on speaker.”

            The panel rolled back up.

            John sighed and took a breath, and thought, for just a moment. Then, with quite a bit of difficulty, John punched a number into the phone, and managed to hit the speaker button, only fumbling once or twice. A voice answered after two rings.

            “Holmes. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

            “John. Listen, I’m in a bit of a tight spot.”

            There was the slightest of pauses before Mycroft Holmes’ voice continued, unperturbed.

            “I’m sorry to hear that. What can I do for you, John?”

            John eyed the plexiglas panel, which had not rolled up entirely. Obviously, his phone call was being monitored by the driver.

            “Look, I can’t explain much, but I’m… I’ve been taken. I’m not sure where, and they don’t want me to be found. But… do you remember that cameo appearance we had in the Vatican movie last year?”

            Vatican cameos. Vatian cameos. It was Sherlock’s code word, but… Mycroft would have to know it, right? God, please let Mycroft know it.

            “Yes, the one with the professional track runner?”

            Track runner. He had understood. John could only assume that meant Mycroft was running a trace on the phone number.

            “Yes! That’s the one. I-“

            “Hey!” the gruff voice in the front said. “Less movie gab. More explaining.”

            “Sorry,” John quickly said to the driver. He turned back to the phone, and Mycroft. “Well, the people here want me to tell you to stay well out of their business. They tell me I’m safe, as long as you don’t investigate.”

            “But of course, John. I understand perfectly.”

            “Good.” He glanced up. “I think they want me to hang up now.”

            “All right. Stay safe, John.”

            “You too.”

            The line disconnected.

            The phone rotated back out of sight, and the plexiglas rolled up to its closed position. John leaned back and stared out the window into the darkness, settling in for a long drive.

 

* * *

  

            In a smallish flat on Baker Street, two detectives were thinking.

            Or, rather, one detective was pacing around, holding a magnifying glass unnecessarily close to his face, while the other detective attempted not to strangle him.

            “Would you please _sit down!_ ” Sherlock Holmes seethed.

            “But I’m looking for clues!” Inspector Gadget protested.

            “You’re not going to find them here!”

            “I disagree! I’m finding evidence of John Watson all over the place!” Gadget held up a piece of half-eaten toast he had found for emphasis. “This has his DNA all over it! My sensors can-“

            “Yes, because he _lives_ here, you daft sod.” Sherlock stared at the inspector in disbelief. While he did consider most people to be beneath him intellectually, this was something else.

            It amazed him that a creature so gormless could still be alive.

            Gadget continued on, oblivious. “D’you think that Penny and John are being held in the same place? I hypothesize that…” he continued on, wandering toward the window, snuffling up DNA with his finger sensors like some amiable anteater.

            “Oh, heaven help me,” Sherlock moaned into his hands. Only one person was allowed to make noise while he was thinking, and that was John. John was not here, ergo, Inspector Gadget simply was not allowed to make noise. However, Inspector Gadget seemed to have missed the memo.

            Sherlock managed to studiously ignore Gadget for about thirty more seconds before his phone went off.

            He picked it up almost instantly, praising every god he knew of, grateful of the distraction.

            “Mycroft,” he said.

            Gadget flicked back around, trotting back over to better overhear the conversation. Sherlock glared, and turned away.

            “And you’ve run a trace on the cell phone?” he asked the person on the other line. “Yes, very good. And they’ve reached the destination?”

            “Has your brother found them?” Gadget asked, seeming unperturbed by Sherlock’s attempts to maneuver away. His neck extended, allowing his head to rest mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s. “Do we know where they are?”

            “Yes, _thank you Mycroft.”_ Sherlock gave Gadget the nastiest look he could muster as he hung up. He was disappointed, for a moment, that touch-screen phones were so anticlimactic. One could not slam a touch screen phone onto a receiver to make a point.

            “Have they been found?” the Inspector asked again.

            Sherlock had heard, probably from John, that it was wise to count to ten in your head before you yelled at somebody. He counted to ten in his head.

            Then he yelled at Inspector Gadget.

            “Of course they’ve been found, you eavesdropping fool! Now would you move back and _get that thing away from me!”_

            Gadget’s head recoiled back onto his shoulders like the tip of a tape measure being wound back into its holster. “Sorry,” he said, quite politely.

            Sherlock breathed in through his nostrils.

            “John made a call to my brother Mycroft approximately seven minutes ago. Mycroft’s team was able to trace the call, and find coordinates for the cell phone the call was made from.”

            Sherlock eyed Gadget with some distrust, for the cyborg looked like he was itching with questions.

            “The call,” Sherlock continued quickly, “was placed from somewhere on the M4 headed westbound toward Bristol.”

            “Where-“

            “It’s about two hours away,” Sherlock answered readily, heading off Gadget’s questions as neatly as possible. “Mycroft is going to continue tracking the cell phone, as long as it is not powered off. Now, it’s possible that they could be travelling to Cardiff, but unlikely, given that Claw would want to be in a reasonably accessible population center. Therefore, he’s probably taking John to Bristol, or one of the surrounding areas.”

            “Then let’s go to Bristol!” Gadget jumped up, obviously raring to go.

            “Not so fast. They haven’t reached their destination yet, and while I pride myself on my deductions, the M4 goes more places than just Bristol. We can’t just set off before knowing exactly where they are.”

            “So what do we do?” Gadget asked, showing just a hint of impatience for the first time all night.

            “We wait,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft tells me that John has said he is to be unharmed as long as I do not investigate. This means that as long as we do not rush off headlong to Bristol without taking precautions, he should remain relatively safe for the time being.”

            Gadget made a thoughtful sort of noise.

            “What did Claw want with John, anyway?”

            Sherlock smirked. “You. In a roundabout way.”

            “Me?”

            “Yes. The objective of kidnapping John is to keep me from working against Claw. I’m just a third party. What Claw seems to be after, if I’m reading this correctly – and I am – is you, Inspector.”

            “How is kidnapping John going to stop you from investigating?”

            Sherlock fixed Gadget with a look of ‘how-much-more-dense-could-you-possibly-be?’

            “He hasn’t just kidnapped John, you imbecile, he’s threatened to hurt him! Don’t you see? If I am caught conspiring in the rescue of your niece, John will be tortured, perhaps even killed.”

            “…oh,” Gadget said, the pieces clicking into place. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t realize.”

            “Yes, obviously not.”

            Sherlock rounded the chair, reaching over to pick John’s laptop off the seat beside him. He opened the computer, guessing John's password on the second try.

            “So, what are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?”

            “Sherlock, please,” he muttered. “Mr. Holmes is my brother.”

            “Yes. Well.” Gadget shifted uncomfortably. “What are you going to do, Sherlock?”

            “We will find your niece, and John,” he sighed. “We just won’t get caught doing it.”


End file.
